Libraries & Bus Rides
by teamfreewill82
Summary: Heyo! First fic for this fandom but I'm pretty sure it's fairly good. :) So please read and review! Thanks a ton!


**Disclaimer: I don't own **_**The Mortal Instruments **_**book series or anything relating to it, only my writing. All rights to Cassandra Clare or whoever owns them. I don't own the book **_**Moon Over Manifest**_** by Clare Vanderpool. All rights to respective owners; thank you very much. Pages used for M.O.M.: 183 and 184. **

**A/N: Hi! I really hope y'all enjoy the fic! *smiley Please read and review, and thank you muchly. **

**Libraries &amp; Bus Rides **

In his seat by the window of the library, the man's golden eyes flit around to see the scarce number of people around him. He'd come to the library only because his best friend had told him he needed to study or else he'd fail the final, and though the young man had hardly cared one way or the other, he'd relented, doing as his friend had chided him to. He breathes out, pursing his lips as he flips the pages of a book. _19__th__ Century London, England: A History_. How utterly dull. He enjoyed action, not... whatever the hell this was.

The place is fairly empty, with people milling around the aisles of books. He could tell a lot from a person by what they were interested in reading, he thought. Like this man, in the science fiction. He was a geek, always had been, and it had passed on into his adult life in the form of _Star Trek_ marathons and microwave popcorn.

One girl was in the drama section, running her fingers along each book before stopping and pulling one off of the shelf in front of her. She read the back, skimmed the pages. She had red curls, the sort that no amount of brushing could tame, and she was rather small, fragile looking, perhaps a good foot and a half shorter than himself at his full height. The girl, probably his age or a bit younger, reminded him of a doll, oddly enough, and he found he enjoyed the look of her, the way she held herself. Quiet confidence, he could tell. When the girl looks up suddenly, he realizes he'd been staring intently at her, and he quickly looks away, though unsure of why; he was popular among the girls at Clave meetings, and didn't shy away from them, thought they were never really what he was interested in having. But this one, she made him feel different. And unfortunately, that was precisely the reason he couldn't have her. Involving her in his… chaotic life, he knew, was not wise. So he wouldn't. He would sit in his chair by the window, trying to focus yet reading the same paragraph about the River Thames over and over.

The girl returns the book to its place on the shelf and turns, heading out of the library, and the man sits back in his chair. There. He'd never see her again. Better, really, for her. A few more minutes and he'd leave as well. He could read at the Institute. Why torture himself in a public place?

* * *

_Jinx shifted to find a more comfortable position and noticed a pinhole of light…_ a young woman read in her head. She'd been reading her book _Moon Over Manifest_ for a few minutes now, waiting for the bus to start up. The driver, an old woman everyone called Gwinn, was waiting for any last minute boarders. The girl had left the library where she had been researching for her final–she studied other worlds–and walked to the bus stop, through snow and slush alike, because her car was in the shop. Inconvenient, considering the current state of New York City–covered in winter.

The bus roars, telling the passengers they'd be leaving momentarily. She barely notices. _…folks kept to their own. Among the Catholics, the Austrians went to Mass at eight o'clock, Italians at nine o'clock, and Irish at ten o'clock… _She glances up now, out her window, for her last view of the bus stop for the day. She takes notice of a man, about her age, probably, of 20. He has golden hair that nearly reaches his shoulders, curled up at a few ends. Bright eyes that match his hair look around him, observing and cool. His skin is tinted red on his cheeks from cold.

Like she does when she sees a stranger, attractive or not, the girl wonders what they're like. What it might be like to be them, live in their life. How amazing, to know that your life is only one of so many throughout the world, as Dickens had written, all others secret. It makes you feel so insignificant. Or at least, it's very strange–wonderfully so–to think about.

The man seems to be getting impatient, when his phone rings. She wonders if he'll be taking the bus. He'd better hurry–Gwinn wouldn't wait forever. The girl sees his mouth moving, like a silent movie; he gestures, agitated, by the looks of things. He snaps his phone closed, mouth set in a tight line. He moves towards the bus–and just then, Gwinn pulls the handle, finally shutting the doors. The man freezes, his careful mask crumbling momentarily, as if wondering how this could be happening to him. Before she realizes what she is doing, the girl is on her feet, book thrown on her bag.

"Hey! Gwinn! Wait, there's a man out there! He needs–" Gwinn can't hear her, and, frustrated, the girl moves out of her seat and up the aisle. "Gwinn," she repeats. The bus lurches to a stop.

"What?" the woman snaps, annoyed to have had to stop. "Oh, Clary. What's the matter?"

Clary points, where the golden haired man is running towards the bus. "That man needed to get on," she tells Gwinn, who shrugs.

"He's lucky to have you, for sure," Gwinn says. "You know him?" She reopens the doors; they scrape against the floor, a rough sound, and the stranger jumps up the stairs, swiftly.

"No," Clary says as he passes, hardly sparing her a glance with his sharp eyes. "No, not at all."

* * *

_Damn. By the bloody angel, why does life have to screw with me so very often?_ The man slouches in his seat at the back of the bus while the redhead returns to what he assumes was her seat before she had stood. Why had she been standing? She had probably been the one to stop the bus for him. Of course. He knew he should thank her, and yet… then we would have to meet her. He couldn't just say, 'Hey, thanks for saving my ass back there' and walk away. When you thank someone, it's an expectation–a common known _rule_, really–that you introduce yourself, and if not you first, them. Hardly any exceptions, he knew that, and he did not need this girl involved with him.

But, because the universe liked to ruin everything, the curly haired girl takes it upon herself to come to the back of the bus when it stops at its second drop-off-pick-up. She sits herself in the seat across from him, trying not to appear too very awkward, but clutching her bag to her thighs. She leans towards him just as the bus rocks forward, on its way again. She rights herself and tries again.

"Hey, I just wanted to see if you were alright," she tells him. "I know it's not really my business, but on the phone back there…" The man looks at the woman cautiously. Nearer to her he can tell that her eyes are quite pretty, much like the rest of her. They are a soft and piercing green shade, one he cannot name, and he looks into them, seeing only sincerity, before clearing his throat and saying, "Yes. I'm fine. My friend… Something came up, and he couldn't come to get me."

She nods, understanding, and says, "I'm glad you didn't miss the bus; the weather sucks today."

_Oh, God. Small talk._ "Quite. That's New York for you." The girl nods, smiling a bit, and agrees. His gaze on her is curious–he can't help it–and he tells her, without thinking, "I saw you."

* * *

Clary's eyes return to his, widening fractionally in surprise. "Oh, really? Where? The library?" The man nods, and Clary nods in return. "I must've missed you. I was pretty focused on the fact that I couldn't find any suitable books to read. I've read most of the good ones." Fabulous. Now she sounded like someone with absolutely no life.

But the man didn't appear at all turned off. "Me, too," he said instead. "I'm being forced to read a very dry book at the moment myself. All of my good books are at… home, and I've read them all." He speaks with a slight accent, a lilt to his voice that is attractive to Clary, and odd. She cannot place it.

"Oh? What do you usually read?" she inquires.

"Older works, mostly. _Jane Eyre_–"

Clary can feel her eyes widen again as she cuts in, "_A Tale of Two Cities_!"

The man smiles at her evident excitement, or perhaps he is just being polite. Either way, the smile reaches his eyes, hesitant, and he says, "Yes. I've read that–twice, actually."

She grins at him. "Three times the charm." He smiles completely at her now, and his ocher eyes are beautiful in that moment, in their lightness. Knowing she must be ogling Clary adds, "Where're you headed?" She thinks she must sound like a stalker, but the man only glances out the window, as if suddenly expecting to be there already.

"Taki's Diner. I'm going to grab lunch, meet up with some friends."

Clary nods, oddly deflated. What had she expected? An invitation? "Cool," is all she replies. Her stop is coming up, she can see, and goes to stand. She had put her book away a while back, when she'd decided to talk to the stranger. Clary holds the seat to steady herself and when the bus stops, she moves forward, then falters. She looks behind herself.

* * *

The girl was looking behind her now, back at the stranger, but he had looked away to his window; he had made himself do so. "Hey, Gwinn!" she calls. The driver looks at her questioningly, and the girl tells her to wait a second. She receives an eye roll but the bus stays put. The redhead comes back, and he shifts in his uncomfortable seat. Or maybe he's the uncomfortable one.

"Hey," she says to him. "I don't know your name." Did that mean she _wanted_ his name? He almost wanted to make a smart comment, to say, 'Yeah, I don't know yours either. See you never,' but something stops him. Maybe it was her eyes on him, so resilient and bright.

"Jace. I'm Jace."

She smiles at him, dazzling him once again with the sheer brilliance of this one act, and tells him, "I'm Clary." She lifts her hand in a wave, and Jace knows he probably won't ever see this girl again. But as she goes to walk down those bus steps–glancing back at him as she tucks a strand of unruly hair behind her ear with a small smile, finally stepping up to her apartment–he wishes, he _wishes_, that he could.


End file.
